Warning: This story deals with unpleasant adult situations, including themes of sexual assault, that you already knew were coming, but since it might surprise you, BEWARRRRRRE.

This one-shot is being posted in participation with the Filthy Roseward contest hosted by FilthyRoseward & Co. Please see the contest profile for full details. http: / / w w w . fanfiction. net/u/2529769

Disintegration by Mopstyle

"Hey." The door squeaked as I opened it slowly. The hallway was dim, but not as dim the room I was entering. Hoping to avoid the wretched noise again, I closed the door behind me as fast as I could. It almost didn't make a sound.

"Hey."

"What are you doing in here?" I asked.

A paltry smile graced her lips. "I couldn't stand the smoke."

"It's your house, Rose. You can make them go outside." I questioned her with my tone as I walked further into the room.

I'd never, to my knowledge, been in this room. There was much of Rose, and her life, that I'd not yet seen, I realized. This thought only intrigued me, but I knew I would eventually be granted access to all I'd missed.

It was a spare bedroom-dark and lazy and lonely. It lacked the vitality of a room lived in, except where Rose sat against the wall, knees bent to her chest, her head resting on the dresser. I tapped my thigh nervously as I tried to figure out where to put myself.

I'd not really followed her, per se, but it was no illusion that I sought out her company. Especially when I knew she was hiding. Everyone vilified me for it, too. Like just talking to her was tantamount to some socially self-exiling experiment with the crazy chick, let alone the bullshit I deflected for wanting to spend time with her.

They could all fuck themselves.

I needed Rosalie.

Rosalie.

Her name sounded so foreign, yet, as I looked her over, I was at a loss to find one better. Nothing else fit, nothing else felt right. I felt her in my bones.

"What did you say?" she asked, not moving from her spot.

"Nothing." It was a lie.

I sat down across from her, leaning against the bed. The bedside lamp cast an amber glow over the dusty room and, from where I was sitting, just missed Rose, only illuminating the far edge of her body, her feet and her shins. One small sliver of her face was lit and her white blonde hair softly reflected the low light in the room and almost seemed to glow.

"I thought you said my name."

"I might have." I shrugged.

"You cut your hair." Her head tilted away.

"So did you."

She snorted. "You noticed?"

I nodded. "As I tend to do, when it comes to you."

She sighed loudly, more like a growl. "Whatever."

"I can't see the look on your face but your voice is mirthful, Rose. I'm going to assume you're being facetious."

I saw her body rise and fall with silent laughter. "Touche, Professor."

I rolled my eyes, laughing at myself. There I went, using big words again. They landed me in more trouble around here than I ever thought possible. Small minded, small town folk can be relied upon to do one thing when faced with something they don't understand, they get scared, and when that happens, they do what they can to get rid of the threat—by whatever means necessary.

Rose knew all my words, though. She never once bat a lash or turned up her nose. True, she didn't react to much anymore. But she saw, she heard, sometimes she still teased. I missed the teasing the most.

"I like your hair," I told her. She'd cut off a lot of it, but it was still long, straight, and kind of haphazard. It was intentionally messy, I guessed, like she was trying on "rock star" for the day.

"Yours, too." I'd only gotten a trim. I was surprised she noticed at all.

Though, lately, I'd seen much less of her, somehow, once or twice a week, we found each other. Here, there, and everywhere. A dusty bedroom was no surprise, really. We'd met in stranger places.

"What can I help you with, Edward? Or are you suddenly sensitive to smoke, too?"

Evasive and humorous, Rose was pretty good at dodging advances, but always let you know that she was on to you—always one step ahead.

Taking my time, I answered her. "I just want to know where you are. What you're thinking. Do you want to take off?"

"No, I'm fine."

I cocked my head but didn't look at her. Questioning her desires probably wasn't in my best interest, but I had to try.

"We could go back to my place, or the diner? Are you hungry?"

Again the loud sigh, but this one was much less amused. Then she sniffed.

"Why do you keep trying, Edward? There is no shame in letting the broken girl go, you know."

"Rosalie, please," I begged, trying to sound frustrated and aloof rather than desperate. I could beg her all day, hold out hope that she'd wake up one morning and realize how wonderful she was and how much I wanted to be with her, but I wondered if any of it meant anything to her. It did to me. She was the reason I woke up in the morning. She was my every earthly desire. She just didn't seem to get it.

"Please what, Edward? Please please you? Not interested."

"Please hear me. Hear what I say and know that I won't let you go."

There was a long pause.

"I'll break you one day," she said, defeated.

"If it fixes you."

"Shut up." There was such disdain in her voice. I wondered if it was me she meant it for.

"After everything we've been through, Rose, you know I don't want anyone except you. You really think I'm not in love with you?"

"You don't want me, Edward. I'm no good anymore. You've known that."

She stood quickly and flashed through the the shadows before me, heading toward the bathroom.

"It's been two years and I'm still not okay."

Rose was extraordinary. She never minced words; she was clear, precise, honest, and afraid. Afraid of me, of her brother, Jasper, of every male down in the dining room right now.

I leapt up to stop her, keeping a foot or two back. Coming on strong was the only real way to get through to her, but I knew when to dial it down a notch. She was remembering, scared, and if I didn't do everything exactly right, she'd get angry, too. Anger was her strongest coping mechanism. It controlled her every thought, every movement she made. It decided what she said, where she went, and which object she hurled across the room. Nothing calm or rational or sincere could compete.

I knew Rose had a ghost in her heart—in her soul. I could see it when someone looked at her a beat too long, I could feel it, sometimes, when I touched her. I could hear it, its tiny, muffled scream as she avoided me completely and locked the bathroom door behind her.

Looking after her, I whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."

She's protected herself long enough, it was my time to take over. I sat down outside the bathroom, leaning against the door. I would wait for her; I'd wait forever for her.

When we met, Senior year of High School, she was bright and vibrant. We hit it off well, considering I was the nerdy new kid and she was, quite literally, the most popular girl in school. My heart nearly stopped when she first spoke to me.

It still does, sometimes.

She and I sat next to each other in our Mythology class, an elective that fulfilled a Literature requirement. I knew she was failing; she never stayed awake for the entire class. Thing was, she needed the credit or she'd have to take a summer class to graduate. I'd heard of her grand plans to visit her Aunt and Uncle in New York for the summer and though I didn't even know her, I wanted her to have everything. I couldn't explain it, so when she asked me to help her pass the class so that she didn't have to postpone the trip, I agreed to tutor her immediately.

"So Triton is Poseidon's son with Amphitrite?" she asked me during on of our sessions. We were tag teaming a term paper that would blow the whole class away. "And Poseidon was a god, the brother of Zeus, but there is an ancient conspiracy that puts Poseidon as Zeus' rival, having also been saved by Rhea, as King of the Gods? And this is what you want to write about?" she posed, look of bewilderment highlighting her face

"Precisely, Rose."

Her light, loose laughter made me smile, even if she was laughing at me.

"Edward, you are too damn nerdy for your own good, you know that?" She pushed herself off the couch and walked toward me. We'd started studying at my house, since her brother was a little too nosy for our liking.

I don't think she had any intention of ever starting something with me, but I wasn't going to question it. As far as I was concerned, she was the only girl that attended Forks High.

"You love it," I said, stretching my legs out on the bed.

She slid my glasses off my nose as she scooted up onto my lap.

"I certainly do. But Edward, it's not the only thing I love," she said, bringing her lips to mine. Rose was always ready for me, or maybe I was always ready for her, and every time she let me inside her, it felt like the first time.

She managed to steal my breath, my heart, and my soul in a matter of weeks. The thought of her leaving for two and a half months nearly killed me. I didn't know if I would actually survive the summer without her.

I did, but she nearly didn't.

Once she was home, healed, whole, she still wouldn't see me. Her parents were sympathetic, but respected her wishes. I understood. They sat me down one night, on the porch, and told me what happened.

In my mind, I couldn't even picture what they were telling me. There were four guys, friends of her cousin. They forced her, broke her arm, her ribs, cheekbone, nose, and jaw. They cut her, tore her hair out. I was so upset that I threw up in the bushes.

Rose died three times in the hospital. Who knows how many times she has since.

Once I took a week to selfishly deal with what happened myself, I realized that I had to, wanted to, make sure that Rose continue to heal. I stayed on her porch until she let me see her.

It didn't matter to me what scars remained, she was still as bright and beautiful as the last time I saw her. I wept at her feet. She got angry, yelled, hit me, but I stayed the night, then I stayed the week, and she finally smiled.

She wouldn't let me go. She slept clutching at me, then she'd push me away. Once my sister, Bella, and her friend Alice started dropping by to find out what was keeping me, Rose started to withdraw.

And once I went home and heard what our friends were saying, I was sickened all over again. No one deserved the atrocities that were bestowed upon Rosalie. They tried to convince me that there was nothing left of her, that I should just dump her, that she asked for it and no one expected any less.

It took every ounce of strength I possessed not to murder every person who dared say anything bad about Rosalie-except Rosalie, herself. Every time she started to hatefully scorn her existence, all I wanted to do was love her, whether it was over the phone, in my bed, or through a bathroom door. It didn't matter. I'd love her until the very dust of my bones was absorbed back into the earth.

And in this spare room I disintegrated right along with her, then was healed and reborn.

She opened the bathroom door a few inches and I pushed it farther, reaching for her as she crumbled to her knees. I pulled her out, into my arms, and let her know with my skin and my mouth and my hands that I had her. She was safe. I wanted her. I loved her.

She may have cried tears of anger, confusion, adoration, I might never have known. They fell on my forearms as I removed her clothing slowly, and pressed her wilting body against the cool papered wall. She knew I was here to save her, to keep her alive. With my fingers pressing, I ached to live inside her and share with her my strength and potency. With her warm skin blushing in the shaded room, I was blinded by her passion and will to live when she was with me. I gave her all of what I had and kissed her body with my determined security and she whimpered under my tongue, happy to accept it.

I wanted her to live as she wanted to live. Her lips dragged across my jaw, catching on my collarbone as she wrapped her legs around me. I clumsily opened my clothes, helping her to my fevered endurance. I could put no more into any gesture. I gave her everything. She was my gravity. She was my world.

"I love you, Rose."

She ignited and took me with her. I'd never held anything, or anyone, tighter than I held her love in my arms. I cried out and she sighed against the dresser, the floor, the wall.

"You were made for me, Edward." She sobbed, "Oh, God."

"Shh, it's just me. You and me."

And it never ends. If I had to feed her every day from my very blood, I would. If it kept her warm and alive, then I would die a different death a thousand times. If it meant that she could hold on, I would let go.

I held her, eventually moving to the bed. I pulled back the sheets and helped her in. Half dressed, I wrapped myself around her. She pulled the rest of my clothing off and tried with all her might to fuse us together. We rolled over each other, toppled pillows to the floor, held on so tightly that it made our mouths water and brought tears to our eyes.

And we drank, we drank for our lives, for our life together. As I moved myself slowly inside her, I decided. As I bound her, my arms over hers, and pushed farther into her, I made up my mind. I was going to take her away, away from all this memory, from all this horror, to Alaska, to Mexico, anywhere she wanted to go.

The muscles in her legs relaxed and tensed, loving me tightly, as she came. I held her, helped her to ecstasy, and I followed her, like I always would.

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